She swept her gaze over him, her eyes looking, it seemed, all the way to his heart. "I sure appreciate you roofing that barn. It's been needing it for a coon's age."
"That's all right," he responded, touched by her open gratitude. "I'm glad to do it." She stood silently for a moment and, more to break the tension than anything else, he added, "Sleep well."
She nodded and he watched her until she became one of the swaying shadows.
When she'd disappeared behind the quilt he sat before the fire, thinking of the events of the day. Silky's news about the home guard left him concerned, and he reminded himself he'd have to be especially careful to stay away from Bear Wallow, where he was sure the old men congregated until the day the wounded soldiers would come home. Their presence definitely presented a risk, but in his mind an acceptable one that he would have to take to gather his vital information. That risk would be mitigated by the fact that the woods were so scarcely populated and Silky's cabin was nestled so far back in the pines, he decided, feeling more secure at the thought.
He lit up another cheroot, his mind now turning to their conversation this evening. He watched the fire's glow flickering over the room's humble furnishings. In the shadows he saw the faces of the Confederate generals, then that of Grant, who, on the recommendation of General Sharpe, had personally dispatched him on the spying mission. Taggart smiled wryly. How surprised the general would be if he knew he was now successfully ensconced behind enemy lines, sleeping in a snug cabin with a flame-haired Reb whose loyalty to the Confederacy included a desire to tar and feather the general.
He chuckled and moved to Daniel's bed. Two boots hit the floor; then, stretching out, he listened to the popping of the fire and the soothing drum of rain on the roof. With a long sigh, he remembered the feel of her lips under his. He'd kissed her more as a game, just to see if he could, but the little game had shaken his sensibilities and fired his desire to the boiling point. Then, recalling the vow he'd made when Ned was killed, he warned himself he couldn't let his personal feelings interfere with his mission. Still, he realized that he and Silky had passed a new milestone, and his senses quickened at the thought of what lay ahead of them.
Tomorrow, he thought just before sliding into a comfortable sleep, he'd move his belongings into the cabin.
Late one afternoon a week later Silky took Daniel's hounds and started walking to her "thinking place," a beautiful spot in the woods where she'd always gone since she was a child to sort out her troubles. In the forest dark evergreens stood out against brilliant foliage, and sunlight, dancing with dust motes, slanted across a twisting path covered with pine needles that crunched under her feet.
Fifteen minutes after she'd entered the fragrant woods she arrived at a place she knew well, a boulder with a smooth top that overlooked a creek swirling over white pebbles. Climbing atop the boulder, she watched the hounds frolic along the creek's edge, the scent of moss and earth and moldering leaves enveloping her. In the distance she could hear the gurgling creek and the cheerful call of mocking birdsall old familiar sounds, but today her mind pondered a brand-new problem. Just how did she feel about this goodlooking flatlander named Taggart who had burst into her life as unexpectedly as a sudden frost?
Since he'd been sleeping in the cabin a new closeness had developed between them, and she found it almost impossible to believe this was the same person she'd once locked in her smokehouse. He was more interesting than any man she'd ever met, and just being near him filled her with crackling passion. Still, the fact that she really didn't know that much about him hung in her mind like a thunderstorm ready to break. Was he all he claimed to be, or someone else, someone trying to deceive her? Oh, he had all the right answers, and a heap of charm to boot. There was no doubt about that, but at times she sensed there was something slightly amiss about him.
Silky's heart beat fast as she remembered his smoldering gaze that had melted her heart to something resembling a puddle of butter. He was so masculine, so devastating, she thought, hot blood singing through her veins like white lightning at just the memory of that ornery grin on his lips. And in that moment, she revised her opinion that it would take a ten-buggy prayer meeting to save him. Someone who'd had as much experience charming women as he obviously had would need a whole two-week revival with dinner on the church grounds thrown in.
Over the noise of the water, she heard the sharp sound of breaking twigs and, twisting about, saw Charlie emerge from the trees, spotty sunlight firing his shaggy red hair. As always, a battered Confederate cap shaded the expression in his eyes, but she couldn't miss that familiar smile she knew so well. "I reckoned I'd find you here," he drawled, scooping up a handful of pebbles, then strolling to the boulder and claiming a place beside her. "Thinkin' about him?" he inquired, chucking a few pebbles into the creek.
Silky regarded her younger cousin, for the moment wishing he hadn't intruded on her privacy; then she told herself he had as much right to be here as herself. "You know I am," she answered with a long sigh. "Who else would I be thinking about?"
Charlie sailed a few more pebbles into the creek. "You shouldn't have let him move into the cabin," he warned, using the tone Daniel always took when he advised her about something important.
"I couldn't let him keep sleeping in the barn," she retorted, irritated at the advice. "It's leaking rain."
"What do you think Daniel would say about him sleepin' in the cabin?"
"Daniel isn't here," she returned, aggravated to be lectured by someone she considered a child. "With the cold weather soon coming on, he'd freeze to death in the barn."
"Oh, I reckon he'd keep on livin' all righta smart feller like him."
Silky considered her cousin's sly grin. "And what do you mean by that?" she asked, perturbed because she already knew what he meant.
"Do you reckon he's really what he says he is? I think you may be lettin' your heart get in the way of your head."
"You're fourteen years old!"
The boy's mouth slanted upward. "Yeah, I ambut I ain't blind. I see the way your eyes light up like a lamp every time he looks at you."
Silky turned her head. "Oh, I'm just trying to be friendly. I'm not serious or anything."
The boy chuckled. "You ain't? Well, you sure had me fooled. Just lookin' at your eyes when they're travelin' over him, I figured you was about as serious as a rattlesnake."
"Wipe that silly grin off your face," she ordered irritably. "You look like you got struck by lightning." Then knowing she really had no defense against his accusation, she simply ignored him and stared at the creek. After a long silent spell, she added, "I thought you liked him."
"I do like him. He's a heap of fun when he starts talkin' about them far-off places. I just don't trust him."
Charlie sat silently for five minutes, chucking the last of his pebbles into the water; then he slid from the boulder, a droll smile catching the corner of his mouth. "You took a real shine to him, didn't you? Do you love him?" he asked bluntly. "Are you fixin' to run away with him when he leaves the mountains?"
Silky let out her breath in an exasperated rash. "My lands-a-living, who's the grown-up here? You or me?"
He gave her an impish grin. "That's what I'm tryin' to find out."
"Sometimes," Silky vowed, leveling a hot glare at him, "I think you're the biggest granny woman in the whole holloweither that or some kind of talking machine that never runs out of steam!"
The boy ambled away from the boulder, but at the edge of the trees, he glanced back over his shoulder. "You just think on what I'm tellin' you," he advised, tugging down his cap. "There's somethin' that just don't set plumb level about that feller. There are things he says I wouldn't believe unless God and the apostles swore to 'em and Jefferson Davis backed 'em up."
Silky watched the boy disappear into the forest, then turned and stared at the creek again, wondering why she was so upset. A moment later she decided it was because she'd secretly thought the same thing herself. Then she remembered
the questions Taggart had asked her about city life, and gradually her better sense took control of her heart, advising caution where he was concerned.
Lordamercy, the places he'd been and the things he'd done: all those plays and operas and parties, and all that fancy living! Why, he was as far above her as the sun was above the earth. A Norfolk gentleman like himself who'd known scores of sophisticated women took pleasure where he found it and rode on, she sternly warned herself. She couldn't let herself be swept away on a fide of emotion, for an uneducated girl like herself could only be a light amusement to him. She dared not give this stranger her heart or he'd break it for sure, then ride away without a second thought.
Yet at the same time, she recalled the feel of his lips against hers, and went all soft and tender inside. Never had she felt so alive and totally happy as when he had held her in his arms. And to make matters worse, when he looked at her with those gorgeous eyes, oozing his charm all over her, she felt an exciting warmth in parts of her body she'd rarely considered before. And what a deep, totally overpowering sensation it was, too.
Silky had always found an answer when she went to her thinking place, but she found none today. Still struggling with her problem, she sat on the boulder until a cool, damp breeze blew through the woods, telling her evening was near. Slowly, she rose and called the hounds. Taggart would be coming down from the barn roof soon and would want his supper, the rightful due of every working man.
As she and the yapping dogs entered the woods for the walk back to her cabin she decided it would be best if she never let Taggart take her in his arms again. But even as she branded the promise into her brain, she realized it was a vow she'd be hard-pressed to keep.
Chapter Three
It was almost dusk, the time the mountain people called candlelight, when all nature stilled before slipping into darkness. From his position on the barn roof, Taggart started gathering up his tools, thinking he'd done enough work for the day. After putting them in a satchel, he stared through the dim light, studying Silky's rough-hewn log home, chinked with clay. Orange light glowed through its windows and a silvery wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, scenting the nippy air with the aroma of burning hickory.
With a tingle of anticipation, he thought of her stirring up corn bread or rolling out biscuits as she cooked dinner for them. The cabin would be warm and cozy and filled with rosy light, and in just minutes he would enter, prompting Silky to come up with an expression guaranteed to make him laugh. Just thinking about the scene conjured up a list of words: happiness, fulfillment, joyall words he'd never applied to his life before.
For a heartbeat he wondered what it would be like to see those glowing windows every candlelightto know her exquisite face was waiting for him in that sea of contentment.
Then like a cold, clammy hand, the growing pressure of his mission bore down on him. Was he going mad? The first few days of November had already passed and he still didn't have his information. As soon as he questioned the returning soldiers, he had to be on his way.
Even if he could stay, he and Silky would make a poor match. He'd come from a rich, privileged background in Ohio, and he could see his life laid out for him like an impeccably tailored suit upon a bed. Although it wasn't to his liking, there would be marriage to a well-born debutante, and after a career in the army he'd take over management of his father's brick factory, the largest in Ohio. Of course, he'd have membership in all the dull, but socially correct, institutions and clubs, and shoulder all the responsibility that came with a great fortune. Despite its stifling restrictions it was a life of privilege that most men would be thankful to havebut a life Silky would be totally unsuited for.
But even if she came from the finest family in Virginia, he realized, the political differences between them would create a chasm a thousand feet deep. She of the fiery Secessionist persuasion would never accept his views that the Union must stand, no matter what.
Hearing soft whimpering sounds, he noticed the hounds cautiously rising from their place in front of the cabin as they laid back their ears and looked in the direction of the woods. From his high position, Taggart gazed at the woods himself and spied flashes of horses and riders on the trail that led to Silky's cabin. To his dismay, he noted that the trio wore bits and pieces of Confederate uniforms. With a spurt of alarm, he guessed the older men were from the home guard and, spotting him in the woods, had come to investigate. As irregulars the shabby soldiers weren't as informed as the battlefield troops; still, if they realized he was a Union officer, they would take him to the nearest Confederate command post or shoot him on the spot, which they were within their right to do.
He knew the alternatives handed to him were to scramble for the woods, revealing who he was without a doubt, or face them down. Perhaps he had a chance, he decided, dropping his satchel and climbing down the ladder. Once on the ground, he strode toward the cabin so he could get a rifle to even up the odds. When he was halfway to the door there were sounds of neighing horses, and three bearded riders burst into the clearing, stirring up the scent of dust.
Armed with glinting muskets, the men wore scuffed brogans, buckskin breeches, and threadbare Confederate jackets missing half their brass buttons. The heaviest soldier, an unkempt sergeant, sported a faded kerchief and a battered kepi cap that covered most of his long, greasy hair. His face was seamed by wind and weather, and deep-set eyes glinted under grizzled brows. ''Hold up there!" he yelled at Taggart, putting a hand on the butt of the pistol strapped to his side.
Over the din of the barking dogs, Taggart heard the cabin door slam. Turning, he saw Silky's long white apron flashing in the twilight as she ran toward him, clutching the repeating rifle in her hands. Instantly he read the worried look on her face, and when she paused at his side, he grabbed the weapon and stepped in front of her in a protective gesture.
The riders' mounts shied back from the snarling hounds, and the sergeant bellowed, "Call off your dogs afore they spook the horses!"
"Hush, you hounds," Silky called at the baying dogs. "Get now. Get!" With a long whimpering wall, the hounds dispersed and slunk of out sight behind the cabin.
Without a greeting, the slovenly man dismounted, leaving his frightened mare to toss her head. Taggart, meeting the sergeant's gaze, noticed an insolent look in his steely blue eyes. Gray stubble covered the woodsman's jowls, and the hard-bitten look on his features said he hadn't come to swap howdys.
The man spewed a stream of tobacco juice on the ground, then drew himself up importantly. "My name's Holt," he announced, a mountain drawl coloring his gruff voice. His focus moved to the other men, who sat astride their mounts with grim-faced obedience, then circled back to Taggart. "Word gets around real fast in the mountains. We heared there was stranger over here and since they ain't no menfolks in this neck of the woods but a young'un and his grandpappy, we decided we'd better take a look." With a loose-jointed stride he ambled forward, a slight limp to his step, and an almost tangible hostility shining from his hard eyes.
Taggart straightened his back, but quick as lightning, Silky sashayed in front of him, her hot eyes riveted on the soldier. "You could have saved yourself a long ride, Sergeant. There's no trouble over this way. This stranger you're staring at is named Taggart and he's a fine gentleman all the way from Norfolk." Her voice was low and quiet, but shot with firm resolution that revealed a will of iron.
Twilight had settled over the clearing, but through the blue haze, Taggart noticed she was shaking and he put his arm about her.
Silky scanned the sergeant and his friends, all from the roughest families in the hollow. Although two of the men were too old and feeble for regular military service, Holt had been exempted because of a bad leg that pained him constantly and did nothing to improve his vile disposition. She wondered if the men could see her trembling. The Lord knew she was quaking insidequaking like a leaf in the wind at what these crazy wildcat whippers might do, now that they had a war to lend authority to their violence.
/> With the dogs silenced, a strained stillness had fallen over the clearing. Hot and sick inside, she scanned Taggart, who, his face hard as granite, held the rifle by his side, looking large and extremely intimidating. On the surface he seemed remote and icy calm, but she sensed tension boiling within him. Under his unwavering gaze, the ruffians eased back a bit, their slumped shoulders bearing evidence of their shrinking confidence.
"The lady's right," Taggart said coolly, the lines deepening about his mouth as he focused on the sergeant's face. "I'm a lieutenant from the Forty-third Virginia Cavalry on furlough. I'm on my way to the Rappahannock to meet my company."
The man grinned sourly, showing rotten teeth. "You got a strange twang in your voice, mister."
Fire flew through Silky, who'd temporarily forgotten she'd made the same comment herself when she'd first met Taggart. Pigs would be ice-skating in hell before she let this rabble trespass on her homestead and interfere again, she thought hotly. "That's 'cause he's a fine, educated gentleman who's gone to West Point with the likes of Jeb Stuart and Stonewall Jackson. Not all Southerners talk like ignorant peckerwoods, you know."
Holt eyed the older men, who grinned slyly, displaying the first spark of emotion since they'd arrived. Then the sergeant studied Taggart again. "What's your business with this gal, stranger?" he asked suspiciously. "Sounds-to me like she's kinda sweet on you."
Taggart shifted his gaze to the barn, now only a dark silhouette against the twilight sky, then returned it to the soldier. "I'm helping her shingle her barn."
The sergeant rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. "That don't sound like somethin' a fine West Point gentleman would be doin' to me." He cut his gaze at the other riders and started reaching for his pistol, prompting Taggart to take aim.
Silky, understanding Holt would be less inclined to shoot a woman than a man, snatched the rifle from Taggart's grip and pointed it at the sergeant's head. She'd once held the same weapon on Taggart, but now that she knew the measure of him, it angered her that trash such as this would confront him. "I reckon that's 'cause you don't have a spark of gentlemanly feeling in your whole body, Sergeant Holt," she remarked, salty tears pricking her eyes. "Quality folks don't mind getting their hands dirty once in a while if it'll help somebody out."
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